


Mistletoe Not Required

by odetteandodile



Series: Sweater Weather [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bing Crosby fun facts, Bucky Barnes has some Revelations, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Christmas, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers Is Good WIth Kids, Steve Rogers is husband material, and you know how bucky and WE all feel about that, more movie references, navigating some growing feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile
Summary: Two months into their still blossoming relationship, Steve and Bucky: buy a Christmas Tree, babysit a Niece, and Realize some Things.When Bucky arrives at Steve's apartment ready to decorate for Christmas, he instead finds Steve a little the worse for wear following a bad day in the avenging business. Bucky makes it HIS mission to prove his boyfriend chops taking care of him. But after the bruises fade (at a super soldier's healing pace, so like, FAST), Bucky's left feeling like there's something more he needs to say.A few revelations lit by Christmas lights and with mood music by the one and only Bing Crosby, as Christmas truly calls for.





	Mistletoe Not Required

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, welcome to this Christmas Edition of the Sweater Weather series! If you found your way here first, you can totes read this on it's own...but there's cute shit from Halloween and Thanksgiving you don't wanna miss, so why not start there?
> 
> I really hope you guys like this installment! 
> 
> As Steve and Bucky's feelings deepen, so enters a teensy bit of angst. But don't worry, it doesn't last! And I think the payoff is worth it :)

Bucky loves Christmas. Truly, unironically he adores it. 

People have been complaining since mid-October about stores already letting their holiday décor and stock creep in (it’s still _Halloween!_ they said) but Bucky had just ducked his head and kept to himself the fact that he hadn’t minded it at all. When Christmas music had started playing in the grocery store the week before Thanksgiving, he didn’t mind that either. 

The thing is, he’s always loved the permission that Christmastime gives people to love something in a childlike, earnest way. No matter what age, if you want to get stupidly stoked about Christmas, it’s allowed. And it’s cool that lots of adults outgrow that, he gets it. But it’s something that Bucky intends to hang onto for as long as he can. 

Overseas, Bucky was the person on the team who collected whatever greenery his current locale had offered to approximate garlands, roped kids into making paper chains with him, and generally annoyed the shit out of his teammates who were mostly just trying to carry on with their work. 

And this year, he’s reveling in the long lead up. Seeing twinkly lights and red and green and gold start to pop up a little at a time, before the weather had even changed. Because really, he hasn’t gotten to enjoy that part in several years. Since college, more or less. Of the last half dozen or so Christmases, he was actually able to make it home for half, which is pretty amazing all things considered. But even the recent ones where he was stateside were still a bit of a whirlwind—coming home a week or maybe two ahead of the twenty-fifth. And it was still awesome. His mom always made sure the halls were decked for his arrival. But he’s missed the bustle and the preparation that comes with just living in a place where people start their planning a month and a half in advance. 

Steve, much to Bucky’s chagrin, is firmly in the “Christmastime is _after Thanksgiving_ ” camp. 

“In my day growing up, getting your tree and decorating it was a Christmas Eve thing,” he’d told Bucky with a mulish expression as they walked past a tree lot the Saturday after Thanksgiving. 

“I bet you didn’t ever even get a tree, Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky had said with a huff. “Didn’t you live in like…a fifth floor walk-up?” 

Steve had looked away, jaw set stubbornly. “Okay, no, we never had a tree in our apartment.” He’d admitted, then added, “But if we _had_ we would’ve decorated it on Christmas Eve.” 

“Time for new traditions grandpa,” Bucky had said, “Pretty sure in your day people also put like…actual lit candles on them. We got wiser about these things.” But they’d bypassed the tree lot that day. 

In the end, they’d compromised. So Bucky’s excited now, on a Wednesday in the second week of December, to be lugging two plastic bins of Christmas décor into the elevator of Steve’s apartment so that they can finally, _finally_ decorate the place. 

Bucky drops the two tubs on the ground beside Steve’s door, raising his fist to knock. A noise behind him distracts him though, and he turns to see Steve’s pretty blonde neighbor Kate unlatching the chain on her door. Bucky smiles pleasantly at her and gives a little wave. He’s still not exactly sure what the history is between her and Steve—and he’s sure there’s some kind of history, because Steve continues to act kind of odd whenever they run into her in the hallway, which is weirdly often. 

“Hey Bucky,” Kate says, hoisting a laundry basket onto her hip. The girl does a lot of laundry. But then she’s usually in scrubs so Bucky figures it’s just an occupational requirement—can’t re-wear scrubs three days in a row as he regularly does with his jeans (don’t tell his mom).

“Hi Kate, how’s it going?”

“Not too shabby,” Kate says, smiling, then eyes the bins beside Bucky. “Are you…moving some things in?” 

Bucky feels the blush flaming on his cheeks instantly at the implication, “No! Not—it’s just some Christmas stuff. Gonna decorate.” 

“That sounds nice.” She glances at Steve’s door, her face darkening a bit with something Bucky can’t quite read, and she lowers her voice slightly. “Look he um—he looked a little rough when he got in…make sure he takes it easy okay?” 

Bucky frowns. “That a professional recommendation?”

Kate laughs. “Yeah. Something like that. See you guys around.” 

She gives a small wave, and then disappears down the hallway with her basket. 

Bucky turns and knocks. And actually that’s unusual in itself—most of the time Steve’s already opening the door before he’s even had the chance to rap on it. Something about super soldier hearing or maybe just knowing exactly how long the walk from Bucky’s parents’ takes. But he hears the scrape of the lock before the door swings open to Steve’s beaming face as usual. 

“Bucky, hi! Come in, it’s warmer in here and I’m making hot chocolate to go with decorating, do you want marshmallows in yours or whipped cream, personally I—”

Steve’s talking a mile a minute, as if that might keep Bucky from noticing that although the smile on his face is the same as always, the addition of one black eye, several stitches in his cheek, and a puffy jaw are absolutely not. 

“Steve! What—you look like shit!” Bucky interrupts Steve’s attempts at distracting him. 

“It’s nothing Buck—just had a bit of a go, but really—it’ll be healed up before the weekend even, please don’t—”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky intones, dangerously, “go sit _down_ right this instant, jesus you’re a maniac.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees meekly. He gestures a hand at the bins, “Want me to get those for you?” 

Bucky’s responding look is so incredulous that Steve doesn’t even seem to require the verbal reply, he just turns away toward the couch—walking stiffly, Bucky notes, and seeming to favor his left side even as he sinks down to sit. 

Bucky hoists the bins and deposits them just inside the door, kicking off his shoes as he goes. 

He moves to sit beside Steve, whose head is tipped back against the couch—whether avoiding Bucky’s gaze again or just out of true exhaustion it’s hard to tell. Bucky folds his legs up underneath himself and reaches out to put a soft hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

“Seriously Steve, what happened?”

Steve shrugs, then rolls his head to look at Bucky with a tired smile. “Just one of the bad days. _Please_ don’t be too worried Bucky. Would’ve waited ’til this cleared up a bit,” he says, gesturing at his face, “but I missed you. And I bought Christmas movies,” he adds, nudging his head toward a stack of DVDs on the coffee table.

Bucky sighs, the annoyance driven away as it always is by the blooming warmth of Steve doing something particularly sweet and unguarded. 

“You got the original Miracle on 34th Street and everything,” Bucky says, thumb brushing along Steve’s collarbone.

Steve grins, wincing a little as the expression seems to jar the cut on his cheek. “Thought you’d probably be a purist about that—plus I turned to the internet for help to impress you and that’s what was recommended.” 

Bucky snorts softly. He’d be a goddamned liar if he said that didn’t make him warm and fuzzy inside. Steve knows how Bucky feels about movies. 

He clears his throat. “How long does it take for you to heal?” Bucky asks, inspecting the ugly bruise around Steve’s eye. Admittedly it’s already more green than purple, which does seem pretty far along considering this latest mission only began the night before last. 

“Day or two,” Steve says easily, “bruises will be gone tomorrow or the next, ribs just depend. It’s really not as bad as it looks, Buck. Hardly worth the trip to medical.” 

“Your _ribs_?” Bucky demands. Steve ducks his head. 

“Just cracked—barely a hairline,” he says, voice muffled as if to cushion the impact of the words. 

“Everyone else come out okay?” he asks. 

Steve nods. “Clint broke a collar bone so he’ll be out a while, and Tony ended up having to scrap the suit he was in. Nothing permanent. Sometimes it’s just a slog no matter how good we are.”

Bucky just groans. Steve looks up again, and reaches out to cup Bucky’s face in one hand. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says. 

Bucky’s shoulders slump. “I’m not mad. It’s your job and it’s amazing how you heal. But god—kinda took me by surprise is all. You didn’t say anything about it being a dangerous one when I left Monday.” 

“We were having a nice morning.” Steve says. “Didn’t want to worry you over nothing.” 

“That’s dumb,” Bucky says, forehead creasing. “That’s not how the boyfriend thing works, Steve. I deserve to be worried about you if I want to be.”

Steve’s face does something complicated, corner of his mouth twitching with some unexpressed thought. 

“Okay,” he says softly. “Can I kiss you?”

“Hmph,” Bucky says, though he’s already leaning forward, sliding his hand gently against Steve’s neck. “I dunno, what would your doctor say about it?” 

Steve doesn’t deign to respond, instead simply closing the distance between their lips to brush lightly against Bucky’s. Bucky presses in closer, but is careful to avoid connecting with Steve’s certainly sore jaw or cheek. 

Steve makes a soft noise of protest when Bucky pulls away, reaching for him. But Bucky grins, shaking his head. 

“I’ve had orders from a nurse to make sure you rest. Lay down, let me take care of you a bit huh?” he says. 

Steve grumbles, but does as he’s told. “A nurse?”

“Your neighbor, Kate. I saw her in the hallway.” 

Steve huffs. “I wouldn’t take my medical advice from Kate if I were you.” 

“Okay I’m going to be following up about that eventually,” Bucky says, a little distractedly as he steps into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “But for now I’ll just say it doesn’t take any kind of a medical degree to agree with the diagnosis that you need to take it easy, so shut up and do that.” 

“You got it,” Steve mumbles, curling in on himself gingerly with his head on the arm of the sofa. His eyes are actually already drooping, and Bucky chews his lip. He’s seen Steve worn out after missions before, but there’s no doubt this is the worst he’s been in the two months since they started up with each other. 

Well, Bucky thinks. He’s dating Captain America—it was bound to happen sooner or later. Now’s the time to show his boyfriending skills off to their fullest and nurse the shit out of Steve. To prove he’s equal to the task. If Steve can get beat up taking care of the world, Bucky can at least do his part to take care of _him_. 

By the time he’s made two mugs of hot cocoa and brought them back to set on Steve’s coffee table, Steve’s face has gone slack dozing off. But he cracks his eyes as Bucky sets down the mug. 

“I’m really sorry Bucky. I just don’t want you to be worried.” He says, words slurring together a little bit with sleepiness. 

Bucky kneels down beside him, feeling an unexpectedly powerful flush of tenderness at how vulnerable Steve looks like this. Bucky combs his fingers through Steve’s fine gold hair, sweeping it back off of his forehead, and Steve closes his eyes again with a sigh. 

“It’s my right to worry about you now, you dope.”

Steve nods minutely against the cushion of the couch arm, but Bucky doesn’t really think he’s fully lucid at this point. It’ll be a conversation to revisit another time. For now, Bucky contents himself with fetching a throw blanket and tucking it in around him. 

Then he goes to retrieve the Christmas decorations from his plastic bins. When Steve wakes up from his recovery nap, it’s going to be to an apartment sporting significantly more Christmas cheer than when he fell asleep—after all, Bucky thinks, a little holiday spirit is good for the soul. 

If anything, the fact that Steve sleeps through Bucky’s entire decorating process tells him everything he needs to know about how truly tuckered out he is. Bucky’s had reason lately to learn what a light sleeper he is under normal circumstances.

Since Thanksgiving they have had an increasing number of sleepovers of the adult variety. And one thing that’s been consistent is that Steve wakes from sleep easily and doesn’t seem to need much. He’s usually up, exercised, and back before Bucky’s even stirring. 

Hopefully this is good though. It just means his body really does need it.

Soon Steve’s apartment is glittering with red and gold and green. Bucky had decided to keep it classic for Steve when he’d rummaged through his mom’s bins of extra stuff in their attic. A few evergreen garlands, red and gold ornaments, and a handful of other odds and ends. 

When he’s done, he surveys his work feeling pleased. Maybe Steve will be back on his feet enough to go get a tree in the next couple of days, to complete the scene. He pauses by the end of the couch, peering down at Steve fondly, unable to resist the urge to bend down and place a light kiss on his temple. 

Steve stirs and reaches out to take Bucky’s hand in his, still most of the way asleep. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, squeezing his hand. “Why don’t you go to bed huh?” 

Steve nods, sitting up and blinking around blearily. Bucky tugs on his hand to get him to standing, then places his hands on his waist to push him gently in the direction of his bedroom. 

Steve crumples onto his bed with the same stiffness of movement Bucky had noticed before, and Bucky feels another twinge of concern. He manages to yank the covers over him as Steve’s eyes drift closed. 

“I’m gonna go, let you sleep. See you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I’ll be better by then Buck.” 

“I know, sleep’ll set you right.” Bucky hesitates. “But promise you’ll call me if you do need anything okay? Nothing dumb?”

“Promise.” Steve murmurs. “There’s a key in the coffee table drawer.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says leaning down to kiss Steve goodbye. Had he done that the morning Steve left for this mission? He can’t quite remember—he’d been pretty sleepy and cranky as he usually is in the mornings. But it rankles him that he can’t be sure. What if he hadn’t and then…and then things had gone _really_ bad? Worse than this even?

“Steve I—” he starts, wanting to say something, but not sure what. He stops himself. 

“Hmm?” Steve asks, cracking an eyelid. 

Bucky smiles, shaking his head. “Nothin’. Hey think about sleeping in tomorrow okay? It’s all the rage with the kids—you might like it.” 

“Mmm.”

Bucky pushes down his buzzing nerves, leaning over Steve to kiss him once more on the forehead, smoothing back his bangs. Then he turns to go. But he does pause beside Steve’s dresser, glancing over his shoulder like a sneak thief before stealing one of Steve’s tidily folded blue sweaters. 

He hurries from the room, clutching the prize to his chest guiltily. But are you even a good boyfriend if you have the opportunity and don’t even steal one item of clothing?

He takes a final glance around the now cheery apartment before letting himself out and locking the door, placing the key on top of the doorframe. 

Bucky pulls his phone out to text Steve to let him know it’s there. His thumbs pause in their typing, hovering over the screen for a moment. He wants to add something, reassurance maybe—though for himself or Steve he couldn’t say—but can’t quite find the right words. In the end he just hits send. It’s fine. 

He’s known for a while now that there were still things about dating Steve that he’d have to learn how to deal with. And although seeing the bruises and cracked ribs in reality is more unsettling than in theory, he can deal. And Steve knows how Bucky feels about him—doesn’t he?

Bucky frowns as he gets on the elevator to leave Steve’s building, trying to remember the last thing he’d said before Steve left for “work” Monday. He can’t remember that either. No kiss, no “be safe,” he thinks, an anxious sensation in the pit of his stomach. He’s going to be sure not to make that mistake again—just in case.

Next time—next time he’ll be sure to say the right thing. Hopefully he has a little while before it comes up to figure out just what that is. 

*

Bucky returns to Steve’s the next day after work fully prepared to continue coddling him into good health. He even brought soup. Got his mom to dig up her ministrone recipe the night before and everything.

Steve has other ideas. 

“I’m feeling better Buck, honestly—I _told_ you it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Didn’t even take the full day!” 

Bucky eyes him dubiously, though he can’t deny that the black eye is entirely gone, and where yesterday there had been stitches his cheek now just sports a fading pinkish line of scar tissue.

“Don’t you want to go get a Christmas tree?” Steve wheedles. 

Bucky’s resolve crumbles somewhat, because he really does want to go get a Christmas tree. 

“You’re trying to trick me using my love of Christmas,” he says sternly. 

Steve puts on an extra sweet smile. “Is it working?” 

“I haven’t forgotten how beat up you were yesterday—”

“Yeah _yesterday_ , today I’m fit as a fiddle!” Steve protests. 

“I don’t know…” Bucky says. “To carry a tree all the way back up here?”

“Mmm,” Steve says, face going sly, “wonder how I could convince you?”

Bucky’s heart picks up a little bit as Steve moves into his space almost predatorily. 

“Uh-uh! No you don’t, you shouldn’t—” Bucky chokes out. 

But too late. Steve scoops Bucky up, hands on the back of his thighs and propelling them both back to the living room wall. Bucky, despite his show of protesting, finds that his legs have a mind of their own as they wrap around Steve’s waist and allow Steve to pin him, the traitors. Steve nuzzles at Bucky’s throat, and Bucky’s head tips back against the wall. 

“You’re a real troublemaker Rogers,” Bucky says, voice gone husky despite himself. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Sometimes.” 

Bucky tips his head down and finds Steve’s mouth, Steve pressing back to meet him insistently. Bucky’s hand finds Steve’s jaw—whole and sharp as ever—angling his face up so that his mouth opens to Bucky’s deepening kiss. 

They stay like that for several long minutes, Steve pressing Bucky up against the wall and kissing him breathless. Bucky finds that while one of Steve’s arms has wrapped under him to keep him in place, the other is now wandering—up and down his thigh, pressing into his hip bone, and snaking up his ribs. 

Bucky breaks away with a slightly shaky laugh. “Alright, alright—you’ve proven your point, I believe you.” 

“Mmm,” Steve hums, smiling a little hazily at him and letting his hand drop to Bucky’s waist. “I can prove it even _more_ convincingly if you come to bed.”

Bucky gives a bark of laughter. “Very suave.” 

“Only with you,” Steve says, kissing the end of Bucky’s nose as he sets him down. 

Bucky sways a little before he gets his feet under himself, his knees a bit weaker than normal.

“So,” Bucky clears his throat. “Christmas tree then? Wasn’t that what this was about?” 

“Was it?” Steve asks, innocently. Then he laughs as Bucky smacks his shoulder. “Right, yes. Christmas tree it is.” 

“Good, no more distractions,” Bucky says with a strict tone, wagging a finger at Steve. Steve grins back. 

It only takes Bucky twenty more minutes to get on his coat and scarf and to convince Steve to keep his hands to himself long enough to do the same. 

The evening outside is one of those perfectly inky, brittle midwinter nights—even in the midst of the bright city. Beyond the halos of neon signs and warm streetlamps, the velvety black of the sky still makes its presence known. 

They stroll side by side the few blocks to the tree lot, hands in their coat pockets due to the icy temperature, but brushing shoulders every few steps to remind each other of their proximity. Bucky can’t help but glance over at Steve often—his cheeks and ears are pink with the cold, and his eyes are bright when he glances back. 

Bucky smiles at him, and Steve smiles back—the smile that’s just for him. It’s the one that’s sort of sweet and shy and hopeful, the one that belongs to that guy Bucky had spotted standing all alone in a crowd of people. 

They round a corner to the tree lot, and Bucky directs his attention back to the task at hand. 

“You got a preference on Douglas versus Noble?” Bucky asks Steve as they enter the rows of Christmas trees in their little bundles. 

“I’m sure you know perfectly well I obviously don’t,” Steve replies. 

“Ooh, sass tonight,” Bucky remarks, grinning. 

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Steve says primly, pretending to inspect a ten foot Douglas Fir that wouldn’t fit in Steve’s apartment by about three feet. 

Bucky laughs, jerking his head down the row to the shorter offerings. “Come on, John Henry, that’s a little much for your Brooklyn ceiling clearance.” 

“What’s John Henry got to do with it?” Steve asks, following him. 

“He uh—you know, chopped trees or whatever,” Bucky says, distracted as he looks for the height tags. 

Steve snorts. “He was a steel driver—you’re thinking of Paul Bunyan.”

“The one with the ox? That doesn’t make sense—they don’t even live in forests.” 

“I—” Steve pulls up short, frowning. “Okay well that may be so but I’m still right because ‘When John Henry was a little tiny baby, sitting on his mama’s knee, he picked up a hammer and a little piece of steel and said this hammer’s gonna be the death of me.’” Steve recites. 

Bucky stares back at him. “What in god’s name was _that_?” 

Steve shrugs. “Ballad of John Henry, we had to memorize it in primary school.”

“Hmph,” Bucky says, disgruntled. “Somewhere between ‘arithmetic’ and penmanship I suppose.” 

“Hey those are both useful!” Steve protests. “Your handwriting sucks.” 

Bucky ignores the jab, snapping his fingers. “Aha! George Washington—he chopped down a tree am I right?”

Steve gives him a pitying look. “Yes, he did in fact very famously chop down a _cherry_ tree. So I’m not sure what your point is.” 

Bucky throws his hands up. “Okay, so your weird Americana knowledge is better than mine—what do you want from me Steven??”

Steve just smiles smugly. 

It doesn’t take long to pick out a tree once they buckle down to it. Bucky thinks maybe it was different back in the day, like in A Christmas Story where they had to shake them out and make sure it had all its branches and everything. Now though they all come picture perfect from the farm, there’s really no getting a bad one. Still it’s fun to be surrounded by the scent of evergreen and sounds of kids squealing. Bucky shakes his head in alarm over how many people are still out getting trees this weekend. He and his mom went and got the one for his parents’ house four days after Thanksgiving. 

Steve insists on paying for the tree. Bucky tries strenuously to talk him out of it. Steve refuses to be talked out. Then he sees the receipt, and Bucky gives an extremely hard roll of his eyes at Steve’s incredulity. 

“Eighty five _dollars_?? For a _tree_?” 

“This is why I told you to let me take care of it Steve,” Bucky chides as he picks up his end of it, all bundled in its white plastic netting for easy carrying. “I knew you’d take it badly.” 

“They—trees grow in the _ground_ —they just do it all the time on their own! For free! We could’ve—could’ve driven up to Connecticut and just cut one down on the side of the road—”

“Just because something grows in the ground doesn’t mean it’s cheap,” Bucky says reasonably, flapping his hand for Steve to grab his end. “Like—like diamonds. Think we could get some of those in Connecticut too?” 

“A diamond doesn’t get thrown on the curb in two weeks!” Steve lifts it, tugging the end Bucky’s holding out of his grasp to instead hoist the whole tree onto his shoulder. Bucky rolls his eyes again. _Show off_. 

“It would’ve been a whole month’s worth of enjoyment for your eighty bucks if you’d let me do it my way,” Bucky says, falling into step on Steve’s other side. “Besides, it would’ve taken all day to go up and cut one and we’d’ve had to borrow my parents’ car which is a whole _thing_ and—”

“I could’ve gotten us a car,” Steve says, stubbornly. 

Bucky makes an exasperated gesture with his hands as the argument circles back around to the beginning. “ _Or_ you could have just taken my word for it and let me pay.”

Steve grumbles something inaudible under his breath, which Bucky decides to take as a win. 

As soon as they get back into Steve’s apartment, shaking off their coats and gloves and scarves as the blast of heated air hits their chilled cheeks, Bucky strides for Steve’s speakers. 

“Moooood music,” he sings, plugging his phone in and hitting play on his Christmas playlist. _It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas_ is appropriately the first thing that comes through the sound system. Bucky croons along in his best mellifluous Bing Crosby tones, waggling his eyebrows at Steve, who laughs and leans the tree against the counter to be unwrapped. 

“You know I’m pretty sure I’ve listened to more Bing with you in the past three weeks than I did through the entire decade of the 1930’s,” Steve says, pulling a utility knife from his jeans pocket to slice through the plastic netting. “And that’s saying something. People really flipped for him.” 

Bucky dances over to Steve, taking him by the hand and forcing him to twirl a couple of times before Steve laughs and shakes him off to finish his task. 

“He’s the voice of Christmas Steve, that’s why. Can’t _have_ Christmas without Bing Crosby.” 

Steve snorts. “Did you know that when he first started performing for radio, a whole bunch of women ended up divorcing their husbands and naming Bing Crosby as the reason?”

Bucky chuckles delightedly. “I did not! Why on earth—?”

Steve shakes his head, laughing. “His voice was too smooth I guess—too tempting. Back then you had to have a reason you wanted the divorce to write on the papers, one of the ones people used was ‘Alienation of Affection’ and a bunch of women I guess felt their affections for their husbands had been alienated because they’d fallen in love instead with Bing, singing to ’em over the radio.” 

“Okay well that’s what they call charisma,” Bucky says, coming over to hold the tree up while Steve unravels it. “I dunno though, I guess if we’re just going on a voice basis I can’t say I haven’t ever been a little bit in love with his. Not as much as—” Bucky cuts himself off, realizing he was about to say _not as much as yours_. But he stops himself before he makes a slip with the L word. He clears his throat, quickly redirecting, “I put the stand in the corner by the window—that okay or you want it somewhere else?” 

Steve gives him a curious look, and Bucky glances away, trying not to blush. 

“Window’s fine,” Steve says at last, lightly. “I’ll hold it steady if you tighten the thingamajigs.” 

“Deal,” Bucky says, with a little relief. 

It takes about four readjustments of the thing before they can agree that the tree is standing straight (“ _having perfect vision doesn’t make you see angles better than me Steve_ ”). Bucky had also brought another helpful bin of tree trimming items from his mom’s stores, and they’re unpacking it together on the floor beside the as-yet-bare tree when Bucky’s phone buzzes several times in succession.

He pulls it out of his pocket, sighing as he sees three texts from his mom and two from Becca, including some very emphatic caps lock which doesn’t bode at all well for him. 

**Ma:** _Bucky plz can u call ASAP we r having an emergency, love u_  
**Ma:** _P.S. Tell Steve I say HI!!!!_  
**Ma:** _everyone okay but CALL ASAP_

Becca’s texts, thankfully, are more to the point. Bucky doesn’t understand why his mom’s texting is stuck in 2004 abbreviating or why she thinks you can’t explain things without a phone call. 

**Becca:** _Hey my sitter just cancelled on me tomorrow night for Ray’s work party, mom and dad are supposed to be going out to his work thing too. Any chance you can cover with Soph??_  
**Becca:** _Shouldn’t be too late and she can come to mom’s. 6-10ish, she goes down at 9. Steve welcome too. Lemme know, love youuuuuuuuu_

Bucky huffs an aggrieved sigh. But of course he already knows he’s going to say yes. It’s not like he has big plans—and he knows if he doesn’t his parents will just end up cancelling their night out to help Becca, and they haven’t really gotten to go out together for a big thing like this since his dad’s heart attack at the end of the summer. He clicks open a text to his mom and Becca. 

**Bucky:** _I got it covered. Tell Sophie her favorite uncle is stoked and ready to hang._

Bucky looks up at Steve, who’d paused in the painstaking process of untangling ornament hooks when he noticed Bucky on his phone. Steve raises his eyebrows in question. 

Bucky puts on his most charming and persuasive face.

“What are your plans tomorrow night?” 

*

Steve says yes to being assistant babysitter at once, and when he arrives at Bucky’s doorstep in the waning hours of the afternoon the next day, it’s with a bag full of cookies from the bakery at the end of the block in one hand and a bag of crafting materials in the other. 

Steve shrugs his shoulders sheepishly as Bucky takes in his supplies. 

“I didn’t want Sophie to think I’m boring,” Steve offers as explanation. 

Bucky laughs, pulling Steve into the entryway by his lapels from what is slowly becoming a snowy night outside, letting the momentum bring him all the way in for a kiss. Though Steve’s hands are full he leans forward to accept. Then Bucky draws away and offers to take the bags. 

“If we let Soph eat this much sugar we’re going to wish boring was the worst of our review,” Bucky says, peering into the bakery bag at the assorted confections. “But I guess that leaves more for us, huh?” 

Bucky reaches in and pulls out a round, powdery snowball cookie, shoving the whole thing into his mouth in one bite to illustrate his point. He grins at Steve around full cheeks, “Derishush,” he manages around the mouthful. 

Steve smirks at him. “Anybody ever told you you’re a real class act—just elegance, really, sophistication personified—”

“Shaddup,” Bucky says, ineffectually trying to brush powdered sugar off of his chin and sweater. “Anybody ever told you you’re a smartass?”

Steve’s smirk widens, and he opens his mouth to reply, leaning into Bucky—but they’re interrupted by Winifred Barnes coming down the stairs, fiddling with the clasp of a bracelet as she goes. 

“James Buchanan I hope you intend to watch your language around Sophie,” she says, stepping into the front hall. 

Steve’s face flames brightly crimson, and he looks guilty as sin—though he wasn’t even the one caught swearing. 

Bucky just waves her off, “Ma jeez I’m not gonna corrupt her, cross my heart.” He beckons her over and she holds out her wrist to let him fasten the troublesome catch. “Besides I bet that high schooler Bex has watch her is worse than me.” 

“Mm,” is all Winnifred says. She leans in to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “Dad and I should be back pretty late, if he’s feeling up to it. You know how he gets with the office crowd.”

“You look great, ma,” Bucky says, squeezing her hand. She hasn’t had a lot of reasons to get dressed up recently, and it’s nice seeing her excited to go out. 

“May I help you with your coat, Winifred?” Steve asks, politely, apparently semi-recovered from his embarrassment at being adjacently chastised. 

“Now son,” Bucky’s dad’s voice breaks in as he descends the stair as well. “You’ll make me look bad, here. Can’t you guys leave a little bit of charm for the rest of us?”

Steve ducks his head, stepping to the side away from the coat rack as Winifred shakes her head fondly. “Of course, sir.” 

George barks a laugh, slapping Steve on the arm. “I’m yanking your chain Steve.” 

Bucky and Winifred roll their eyes at each other behind his dad’s back, and Winifred ends up tugging on her own coat before anybody else can offer to make a fuss about it. 

“Cab’s here,” Bucky’s dad says from the front door, because his parents are still the kind of people who call a taxi company and order a cab to their door for big nights out. 

“Becca should be by with Sophie any minute,” Bucky’s mom says over her shoulder as she gathers up her purse, “remember, emergency numbers on the fridge and—”

“Mom! I _live_ here remember? Emergency numbers, jesus—” Bucky interrupts, exasperated. 

“Have a great night Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” Steve cuts him off, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and waving as Winifred and George close the door behind them. 

“Show off,” Bucky says once they’re gone. 

“You love it,” Steve replies, grabbing up his shopping bags again and making his way into the living room. 

Bucky stays where he is for a moment as a quick little jolt zings through him at Steve’s comment. 

Then he snaps himself out of it, following Steve into the kitchen, intent on snagging the pink frosted sugar cookie before Sophie gets here to claim it. 

 

Steve’s craft materials are a big hit with Sophie—almost as big as the cookies, which Becca regards with weary resignation when she sees them on the counter. 

“Just make sure she sleeps at some point, okay?” Becca pleads to Bucky in a low tone, as Sophie begins to climb Steve like a jungle gym, swinging from one arm. 

“Done and done. You don’t have to see her again tonight when you’re drunk, I know that’s what you really—ow!” 

Becca punches him in the shoulder, making a face at him. “It’s beer and wine service only, you can’t get wasted on beer and wine.” 

“That is _patently_ untrue and I specifically seem to remember somebody’s prom night that would support my claims here—” Bucky teases. 

“ _Okay_ , I was _seventeen_ god you—” Becca takes a deep breath, settling her shoulders again. She looks back up with a dangerously pleasant expression. “Thank you so much for doing this. I hope that my daughter isn’t a wild-eyed monster who gives you hell at all.” 

Bucky grins, pushing Becca toward the front door. “Go on Bex, have a good time.” She shoots him a look and he raises his hands in surrender. “I’m serious! Live it up, stay out all night, Sophie’s all set.” 

Becca looks over Bucky’s shoulder and her face softens into a smile, and Bucky follows her eye line to where Steve is now spinning in circles with Sophie giggling in his grasp. 

“Yeah,” Becca says. “She’s not gonna want to come home. Okay! I’ll text you if it’ll be after ten.” 

“Get outta heah!” Bucky says, miming a kick at her, and Becca waves once more before slipping out the door. 

They spend the first gluey hour sitting at the dining room table making ornaments, surrounded by paper, beads, pom poms, and—most ill-advisedly—glitter. 

“The lady at the store told me a four year old girl would like it!” Steve says in an anguished whisper over Sophie’s head, side of his face glinting with stray bits of it already. 

“Four year old girls love it,” Bucky replies, nodding down at Sophie who is engrossed with her project, “moms and vacuum cleaners don’t is all.”

Bucky slips his phone from his pocket to check out of habit, and finds two texts from Becca which make him grin down at the screen. 

**Becca (6:42pm):** _okay turns out I lied there’s also margggggs_  
**Becca (8:06pm):** _its okay if we comr back later rifgt?_

**Bucky:** _I’m going to be pissed if I see your ugly mug in here before midnight._

**Becca:** _youre the best!!!_  
**Becca:** _srsly buckyyyy yoi know i love you right_  
**Becca:** _i know you came hime to help mom byt it means a lot tp me too that youd do that_  
**Becca:** _thats why im sp happy youre w steve now so youl stay in brooklyn this time_

Bucky chuckles and tucks his phone back in his jeans. He knows Becca’s having a good night if she’s getting all mushy—not that the sentiment means any less to him for the drunken typos. He looks at Steve over Sophie’s head and smiles. He’s pretty glad of the reasons he has to stay in Brooklyn these days too. 

Once Sophie is done turning each of the plain wooden cutouts Steve had brought into a “masterpiece”—her own words, in fact—Bucky hustles them both over to the couch. 

“Muppet Christmas Carol?” he asks, flicking through their Netflix options. 

“I—what?” Steve asks with a frown. 

A grin spreads over Bucky’s face, “Okay we are so watching it—you’re in for a treat. You good Soph?”

Sophie nods. “I like Rizzo the Rat. Is he in this one?” In her voice it sounds like Wizzo the Wat, which Bucky loves. He hopes she doesn’t grow into her R’s _too_ soon. 

“Me too!” Bucky agrees emphatically, “And he sure is,” he says starting it up. 

 

Okay, Muppet Christmas Carol is a _little_ bit scarier than Bucky remembered it being. 

By the time the Ghost of Christmas Past has arrived, Sophie has already crawled fully into Steve’s lap. She’d loved the skating penguins and singing rats, and Bucky had managed to convince her that Marley and Marley were funny, not scary, but she’s still giving him doubtful looks now and then—as is Steve. 

Bucky thinks he might need to make a plan to fast forward through a little bit of the Ghost of Christmas Future, because if he recalls correctly that motherfucker is way creepier than these opening acts. 

Sophie’s got a pretty decent set-up now though, with one of Steve’s arms wrapped around her where she can bury her face in his shoulder when things get “a little bit scawy for me.” 

Steve reaches out with his other hand in the middle of Mr. Fozziwig’s Christmas party, finding Bucky’s and twining their fingers together. By the time Christmas Present has arrived, Bucky’s curled his feet up under him and leaned in to put his head on Steve’s free shoulder across from Sophie. 

Steve repositions to wrap his arm around Bucky’s shoulder too, so that Bucky and Sophie are both bundled up against him. 

Bucky lets himself lose focus on the screen for a moment, savoring Steve’s warmth and the homeyness of the three of them all curled up and full of cookies. He and Steve have had lots of movie nights like this. And Bucky’s really looking forward to a lot more, maybe more like this with a small person or two or three added to the mix. Maybe ones where they’re old and grey. 

Maybe he doesn’t want to picture _any_ nights in the future anymore where Steve doesn’t factor in.

Bucky’s heart speeds up, despite himself. 

Suddenly, with a crashing crescendo, he’s realized what it is that’s had him so on edge since Steve’s mission that went bad. 

Bucky sits back, looking at Steve’s long profile in the muted light of the movie, and before the thought has really even made its way through his entire brain he blurts out—

“Steve—I love you.” 

Bucky snaps his mouth shut. Steve looks back at him in surprise. They’re both suspended there for a moment like a tableau, only the sound of Muppets singing in the background indicating that time hasn’t stopped entirely. 

Bucky thinks frantically, trying to catch up to himself. He’s been dogged all week by an unsettled, anxiousness that he’s left something undone. This was it. Steve had gone off Monday without knowing—without Bucky ever telling him that—Bucky loves him. That sometime over the preceding weeks Bucky’s fallen for him—head over heels—and he doesn’t want Steve going into danger again without knowing it. 

But no—Bucky chews his bottom lip, trying to keep his body language from changing as he freaks out internally—it’s way too soon for that, right? He should take it back—smooth it over. It’s only been two months, he can’t—he shouldn’t—even if he _does_ he shouldn’t _say_ it yet…

But if it’s true it’s true. If it’s something he’ll wish he’d said if things go bad, why not cop to it when they’re good? 

He takes a deep, steadying breath with his eyes closed. Then he opens them, looking back at Steve resolutely. 

“I do. I love you. And I don’t want you to think you have to—” he rushes to add as a crease appears between Steve’s brows, “to say it back. If you don’t—that’s not—look, this is just a statement of fact. For me.” Steve’s brow furrows deeper, not a bad expression, just deeply thoughtful as Bucky explains. “I realized it and it just—it just is. And it feels stupid not to update you and let you know about it. Status report. On where I’m at…with that.” 

“I—” Steve says, softly, “thank you. For saying it.” He reaches up to brush a thumb over Bucky’s cheek. 

“Shhhhhh, you’re missing the nice ghost,” Sophie scolds from the other side of Steve. 

“Sorry Soph,” Bucky murmurs, returning to his spot beside Steve with a tentative movement. But as he hovers, Steve’s arm wraps around him again and squeezes Bucky in fiercely to his side. 

Bucky collapses into him, breath whooshing out in a sigh of relief. 

He does _not_ do well in refocusing on the movie though, remembering just in time when Sophie makes a frightened little squeak to skip over the Ghost of Christmas Future and his death shroud. 

After it’s over, the two of them move wordlessly to take her upstairs for bedtime, Steve scooping her up from the couch where she’s already nodding off against his chest. Steve helps her brush her teeth, despite heavy protests, and Bucky tucks her into the guest bed his mom had made up already for her. 

She’s well on her way to sleep as they flick off the light and slip out of the room. 

Bucky tugs on Steve’s hand as they make their way down the hall, pausing in front of his door. 

“Come in here for a little,” he says just above a whisper. 

Steve casts an uncertain look toward the stairs. 

“Come on, my parents won’t be home for ages yet,” Bucky cajoles. Then he laughs. “Wow, been a minute since I uttered those words under this roof.”

Steve raises his eyebrow, leaning in to brace his hands on the doorframe on either side of Bucky. “That right?” 

Bucky fumbles behind himself for the door handle, and grabs a fistful of Steve’s sweater to pull him forward as the door swings open. 

Steve turns him by the waist as the door shuts behind them, leaning Bucky up against it. He reaches up with both hands to cup Bucky’s face, and even though the only light is from one strand of Christmas lights in the window, Bucky can see that his expression is serious and searching. 

“What you said before,” Steve says in a low voice, breath ghosting over Bucky’s cheek, “that you—you mean it?”

Bucky nods, breath catching in his throat. Steve’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone. 

“Oh,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t read the tone. 

But then Steve leans the rest of the way in, capturing Bucky’s mouth and kissing him in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. It’s all Bucky can do to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck and hold on for dear life. 

“I mean it, Steve,” Bucky says, pulling away with a gasp and gripping his hands to the side of Steve’s neck. “I mean it that I want you to be fucking safe, and come home to me and I—I want a lot of things one day and I’ll be pissed if you go off and get yourself killed instead. Because I wanna be with you all the damn time. That’s what I mean. That I love you.”

Steve lowers his eyes, long lashes fanning over his cheeks. Bucky’s pretty sure that if they weren’t stained with color from the Christmas lights, they’d definitely be tinged with a blush. 

He leans in and kisses Bucky once more, lingering and sweet. His grip around Bucky’s waist relaxes, though he doesn’t let go as he pulls gently to walk them back toward the bed. 

Steve sits as his calves hit the edge of the mattress, and Bucky sinks down beside him. It takes a moment to rearrange their limbs so they’re both tucked up on the twin bed, Steve propped up on one elbow looking down at Bucky. He brings his other hand up to trace with a feather touch the lines of Bucky’s face. 

“When I was—young,” Steve says, a little haltingly, and Bucky understands that what he means is before he went into the ice. “Saying ‘I love you’ was…a promise, I guess. It was a contract. And I—” he hesitates, ducking his head, and Bucky squeezes a reassuring hand against his hip. “I know what my life is. There’s promises that if I made them, I’m not sure it’s in my power to keep them and I couldn’t—do that to you. I need to figure that out, I know. But—” Steve stops again, looking up to meet Bucky’s gaze unblinkingly. “But I think your way is braver. Just the facts. The fact that I do want to come home to you, and I miss you when I’m not with you, and I’d be crushed if anything happened to you. That I’ve got a lot of plans. With you.”

“Y-yeah?” Bucky asks. 

Steve nods. “Yeah Buck.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you too.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, a soaring sense of lightness rushing through him and making him almost giddy with it—with relief, and happiness, and rightness, “Good.” 

Bucky surges forward again at the same time Steve tips down, so that their kiss is messy and limbs tangle in the hurry and enthusiasm. But quickly their motions fall into sync, hands and lips and bodies moving with purpose against each other, and they quickly shed the layers between their skin. 

Being good in bed is a myth, at least in the way that people usually like to talk about it. Like some rote skillset that can be learned and mastered. No two people’s bodies, preferences, tastes are the same, and so there’s no objective collective mastery that applies across the board. 

But being a good lover? That’s a different thing. It’s learning a partner like a map, like a language that only the two of you can speak—that you get more fluent and less lost in every time, if you’re paying attention. 

That’s how Steve touches him. Each time they’ve gone to bed together Steve’s made it his business to figure out what makes Bucky tick, what makes him moan. It’s intoxicating—it’s not just good sex (really good sex). It’s the attentive care lavished on making it good that gets under Bucky’s skin and sticks there. Makes him keen to give as good as he gets. 

And that feeling doesn’t fade with the afterglow, later when they’re tangled but quiet under the covers. 

Steve lies with his head pillowed on Bucky’s chest, breathing softly but not asleep as Bucky strokes his fingers through Steve’s hair. 

“So what do we do next?” Bucky asks. 

Steve hums into his skin. “I should probably sneak out of here before your parents get back—or else I’ll have to climb out the window and that sounds like work.” 

Bucky huffs a laugh at that image, but refuses to be deterred that easily. “You know what I mean. Next next.” 

Steve hums. “We work on figuring it out I guess.” 

It’s not the most inherently illuminating or specific plan—yet somehow Bucky knows what he means. They’ll figure it out together. It might even be fun—a good kind of work. 

“Know what I’m glad of right at this moment?” Steve asks. 

“What?” 

Bucky can feel Steve’s smile curving against his skin. “Glad Bing Crosby is resting peacefully in his grave. I’d hate to lose your hard won affections at this point just because I can’t sing worth a damn.” 

Bucky snorts in surprise, smacking Steve’s shoulder. “That’s gotta be some kind of blasphemy Steve,” he scolds as Steve shakes with giggles. Then he considers. “Anyway I like your voice. Don’t have to hold a tune to keep me happy—long as you’re singin’ just for me.” 

“Sap,” Steve says, but without much heat behind it. 

“Yep,” Bucky agrees. 

Steve tilts up his face for another kiss, and Bucky obliges—lazily this time, not intent on anything but just enjoying the moment. 

But after a few of those moments or minutes or hours or who knows how long really, they hear Bucky’s parents arriving downstairs and realize the time has gotten away from them. 

Bucky convinces Steve not to climb out of the window, but to wait for an opportunity to sneak out the front door instead. 

“As befitting a national icon,” Bucky whispers in the dark front hall, finding the situation funnier than Steve does. 

The hinges creak as the door opens, and Steve gives him a baleful look while Bucky suppresses a laugh. 

“Come over tomorrow?” Steve asks, turning on the stoop, flakes of falling snow already catching in his rumpled hair and frosting his shoulders. “Help me enjoy my eighty dollar Christmas tree?” 

“Worth every penny,” Bucky says, leaning forward to kiss Steve on the end of his nose. “Be there with bells on.” 

“Love you,” Steve says by way of goodbye, jamming his hands into his pockets and skipping down the stairs. 

“Love you too,” Bucky says softly into the drifting snow.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! I love hearing from you guys. 
> 
> Expect some New Year's Eve fun down the road--these guys and YOU both deserve a little bit of a party after all this emotional lifting right??
> 
> Find me on tumblr (so long as it lives, hah) at [odette-and-odile](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/odette-and-odile) :)
> 
> And if you're interested in my/Bucky's Christmas playlist on spotify please enjoy that [right over here](https://open.spotify.com/user/ctwls3bilnny431vd7z1trz55/playlist/3Hb3OQpPm0EwR4VV1wkQkX?si=SmGG3k6fTv2bPxnCSB-UmA), let me know if you give it a listen!


End file.
